


Step Two

by Lindentreeisle (Captainblue)



Series: Push!verse [4]
Category: Push (2009), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-25
Updated: 2011-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captainblue/pseuds/Lindentreeisle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sits at a table out in the morning sunshine, and rolls every sip around his mouth before he swallows, and enjoys the delicious feeling of normality that steals over him.</p><p>A gloved hand sets a second cup of coffee on the table, and Sherlock Vernet sits down across from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Step Two

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to: thisprettywren for betaing and for being clever.
> 
> Wren, Ivy, Noony, Lishan, and the irc crew for helping me brainstorm awful things John could do to people. lady-ganesh for general encouragement, and melannen and xerahanadu for helping me figure out how to fix the ending.

Tea is vital to civilized society, but that doesn't mean John can't appreciate a good cup of coffee.

Mombasa's been good to him- _extraordinarily_ good in comparison to Mogadishu- and he can afford to splurge on a real cup of coffee at a café with tablecloths and china cups, just this once. John sits at a table out in the morning sunshine, and rolls every sip around his mouth before he swallows, and enjoys the delicious feeling of normality that steals over him.

A gloved hand sets a second cup of coffee on the table, and Sherlock Vernet sits down across from him.

John reaches for Sherlock, already thinking _embolism, knock him unconscious and run_ but Sherlock sets his right hand on the table. It's cradling a miniature semiautomatic with a severely snubbed barrel.

“Don't touch me,” Sherlock says. “I prefer my knee in its current state, thank you.”

John withdraws his hand, feeling sick and then, suddenly, furious. “I told Holmes no and then I bloody left the continent. Can't you bastards take a _hint_?”

Sherlock huffs out a noisy sigh. “For God's sake, you're a reasonably intelligent man. Use your brain, why don't you?” He gestures with the hand that doesn't have a gun in it. “Look around. Do you really think I’d have come to kidnap you back to London by myself?”

John darts a glance all around but doesn't see anyone else who looks like a Division employee, and it doesn’t make sense that they’d send only one agent, with all their resources. Hell, if they knew he was here, they could just call it in, have him arrested and deported without committing their own people. He looks back at Sherlock, who nods and picks up his coffee cup to take a sip.

“Exactly,” Sherlock says.

“Why are you here?” John demands.

Sherlock responds with a raised eyebrow. “Aren't you curious to know how I found you?”

“I assume I missed something.” Or Bill's little evidence barbeque had been foiled, but John wasn't about to name anyone who had helped him. “I'm more interested in why you trekked all the way out here. I assume it wasn't for the coffee.”

“It is good coffee,” Sherlock says fondly, and takes another sip. “But no. I'm here because I need a Stitch.”

John can’t help but laugh. “Pull the other one,” he says. “Did all the Stitches in England suddenly drop dead?”

“Seven minutes, forty-three seconds,” Sherlock says.

John blinks. “I'm sorry?”

“That’s the amount of time you spent repairing my knee,” Sherlock says. “A Division Stitch could have done the same, but not nearly so fast. And you’ve had no formal training in using your ability.”

John bites his tongue on a reply about the “uncle” who trained him. Sherlock suddenly retracts the hand holding the gun and stuffs it into his pocket. It reemerges holding a plastic bag, which he tosses across the table to John. The bag contains a crumpled, empty cigarette packet.

It takes John a few moments to make the connection. “This- I gave you this.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says.

“That was nine months ago.” This is absurd: no Sniff is going to get an impression from an item John's barely touched.

“Yes,” Sherlock says.

“I only had the bloody thing for two days!” John tosses the bag back onto the table between them.

“Are you done stating the obvious yet?” Sherlock asks. “I find it very tiresome.”

“You can't have tracked me so far with so little,” John argues. “It's impossible.” If this isn’t what Sherlock used though, then what? John is sure he didn’t leave anything else behind.

“And yet here I am,” Sherlock says. He smirks at John, who isn’t quite sure how to respond to that incontrovertible fact. “You’re a very good Stitch, and I’m a very good Sniff. The job I am working on requires both.”

“You mean assignment,” John says cautiously.

“I mean job, a private job,” Sherlock says. “Division doesn't know I'm here. I have, as they say, slipped my leash.”

“What kind of job?” John asks, intrigued despite himself. He’s been doing private work himself, of course, but those jobs are small and furtive things which don’t require jaunts around the world.

Sherlock takes out a folded sheet of paper, which he taps against the rim of his coffee cup. “I am hunting a man named Aaron Wentzler,” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially. He sighs exaggeratedly when John just looks at him blankly. “Oh, honestly, you’re a doctor and a psychic, and you’ve never heard of Doctor Wentzler?” John shakes his head, honestly mystified. “Voi Medical Station? Psychosteroidal experimentation?”

“I’ve heard of psychosteroids, obviously,” John says. “But I’ve never needed to try them, and anyway you can’t get a scrip if you’re unregistered.”

Sherlock gives him a look as if he finds John’s profound ignorance personally offensive. “Wentzler dropped out of sight in the mid 80s,” Sherlock says. “His disappearance was thorough and involved the destruction of any personal property that could be used to trace him. Previous attempts to find him have utterly failed.”

Sherlock hands the paper to John, who unfolds it, observing a color photo of a handsome African man beginning to gray at the temples. He is wearing a suit and a large smile, and his hair is nearly buzzcut-short.

“This is Joseph Kinuthia, self-made millionaire and Assistant Minister of Finance in the coalition government,” Sherlock says. “In 1982 he had contact with Wentzler and, I believe, came into possession of an item which survived the purge.”

“And you think he’ll still have it after all this time?” John asks, refolding the paper.

“I am certain.”

John tries to hand the photo back, then sets it on the table when Sherlock makes no move to accept it. “Okay, that explains the Sniff part. Why do you need a Stitch?”

“Kinuthia is virtually immune to both bribery and blackmail,” Sherlock says. “Unfortunately he knows me by reputation and he has very little reason to love the United Kingdom, particularly the Division of Asset Management. He does, however, have a very sick daughter.” Sherlock looks at him expectantly.

John feels slightly ill at what Sherlock is implying. “You want to blackmail this man with his child's health? That's fucking sick.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock says. “Blackmail implies threat. What I plan is simply an exchange of favors. I'll offer Kinuthia my assistance and he'll offer me his.”

“Not seeing the distinction, sorry.”

Sherlock steeples his gloved hands under his chin and balances his elbows on the table. “Gloria Kinuthia is seventeen years old. When she was fourteen, she developed an unusual tumor: a malignant ameloblastoma. She was treated with surgery, which went extremely well. But-“ Sherlock stops and raises an eyebrow.

John frowns, trying to remember what he knows about the condition; it’s rare to begin with, and for the tumor to be malignant is even rarer. “It recurred?”

Sherlock nods. “Radiation and chemotherapy have proven ineffective.” That’s always the risk: if the surgeon misses even a few of the mutant cells, they can go on to reproduce until they form a new tumor. It’s a problem John is able to overcome, because he can hunt out the tumor on a cellular level; not to mention his ability to regrow bone or tissue from scratch. John knows, _knows_ , that he can help this girl.

But how can he trust anyone working for Division? And to do work for a government official, even through an intermediary like Sherlock, is a calculated risk. John doesn’t need money that badly. “No,” he says.

Sherlock studies him intently. “I don’t understand. Why don't you want to help? You like helping people.”

He sounds so confused and aggrieved that John has to grin. “That’s true enough. Was that your whole strategy? To play on my compassion?”

Sherlock shrugs. “The evidence suggests that you’re prone to bouts of irrational sympathy for people you don't know.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?” John is almost enjoying this conversation; Sherlock is so emotionally detached that it’s like talking with an alien. He sips his coffee while he awaits Sherlock's response.

“You didn’t cripple me, even though it was the most logical course of action,” Sherlock says. John raises an eyebrow. Perfect example: you’d think he was talking about someone else’s debilitating injury. “It would have convinced Mycroft that you were unimportant. Instead you did the best possible job, sacrificing your own safety. It was thoroughly irrational, and almost certainly motivated by misplaced empathy.”

“I'm a _doctor_ ,” John says. “I wouldn't describe my empathy as misplaced.”

“Yes, exactly.” Sherlock takes a last swallow of coffee and sets his cup down. He stares at John for a long, uncomfortable moment before nodding decisively. He fishes a couple hundred-shilling bills out of his pocket and shoves them across the table at John. “There's an internet cafe called The Blue Room, on Haile Sellasie Road. Google 'Voi Protocol,' vee oh ai. If you're interested in the job, meet me on the city side of the New Nyali Bridge at sunset tonight.”

Sherlock stands to go, reaching for the center of the table. John snatches up the plastic bag holding the cigarette packet. “I'm keeping this,” he says warningly.

Sherlock shrugs and picks up the photo instead, which he pockets. “If you're not interested in the job, I won't need to find you again.” In moments, he's disappeared into the crowds.

***

Voi is a Kenyan market village that was once the site of Doctor Aaron Wentzler’s study of childhood vaccination. Voi Medical Research Station closed suddenly in 1983, after an inquiry uncovered irregularities in the station’s bookkeeping practices which suggested that the research funding was coming primarily from the British government: specifically, the Division of Asset Management. The research subjects received generous out-of-court settlements, and Wentzler packed up his equipment and disappeared.

According to a number of websites, the study had been a front for the testing of a new regimen of psychosteroidal drugs known to cause excruciating pain and brain damage along with an improvement in psychic ability. The evidence consists of a patchwork of vague news articles, anonymous “eyewitness accounts” and speculation by conspiracy theorists. It would sound absurd if John didn’t know from personal experience that the Division is controlling and creepy and doesn’t care much for the human rights of psychics. He grew up on stories about the Division kidnapping psychic children away from their parents and raising them to be obedient soldiers. Surely pharmaceutical experimentation isn’t any more implausible.

John wants to laugh it off, but he thinks of Mycroft Holmes’ voice, smooth as whipped butter, telling him _my legal authority over you is very near absolute_ , and he simply can’t.

He continues to simmer with rage and horror long after he leaves the internet café. John is waiting at the bridge long before the sunset begins to stain the sky pink. “How did I not know about this?” John demands as Sherlock strolls up with his hands in his trouser pockets.

“You were a child when it was news; most parents would not consider the story to be pleasant bedtime reading,” Sherlock says, leaning one shoulder against the abutment. “The Division did quite an effective job of paving the whole thing over. Even the Kenyan government stifled their protests when enough foreign aid money was tossed their way. Of course, they were never aware of the full extent of what had happened.”

“So was it a Kenyan or a psychic who hired you to find Wentzler?” John asks. “Or both?”

Sherlock smiles the slightest bit. “Well deduced,” he says, but he doesn’t quite answer the question. “Come along, we need to get a cab or we'll be late.”

John can't remember the last time he took a cab. He jogs to catch up with Sherlock's freakishly long stride, and ducks in after him when he flags down a battered black sedan with its license papers displayed in the windshield. “If the government was protecting Wentzler, wouldn't he have returned to England?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. He was too much of a liability to have that close. They funded his retirement, but after thirty years the paper trail is rather thin indeed.”

John hesitates before asking the next question. “So what is it your client wants, then? Revenge?”

“Justice.” Sherlock's eyes gleam. “I believe the prosecutor of the International Criminal Court can be persuaded to take an interest.”

“Not the UK courts,” John says. It would be nice to think that there were some values in his home country besides _cover your ass._

“Mycroft Holmes is not a fan of Wentzler's work, but a true accounting of the Voi Protocol would implicate the Division first and foremost,” Sherlock says, scowling. “We’ve discussed it.” There is venom in the word _discuss_.

“Hence your independent action,” John concludes, finally feeling like he has the full picture, or as near to it as he’s likely to get. Strangely, having to drag it out of Sherlock piece by piece makes it all the more satisfying.

“Quite.”

The cab drops them outside a large, modern home in the posh suburb of Old Nyali. There’s an undeniable air of wealth about the neighborhood: beautifully-groomed green lawns, fenced swimming pools, two- and three-story houses painted stark white, and pristine stone walkways all scream of connections and money. This is assuredly not a place where John belongs. But he’s become accustomed to faking it, so he falls easily into step beside Sherlock and imitates his nonchalance as they walk up the long front drive lit by lamps set on short poles every few feet.

“Good evening,” Sherlock says, when his brisk knock is answered by a slim but muscular man in a suit. He is taller even than Sherlock, and glares down his crooked nose at them as if unable to imagine what might be good about any evening that brought _this_ to his door. Is he a butler? No, even rich people don’t have butlers any more. Security, then. “I’m here to speak to Mr. Kinuthia.”

“Call the office,” the man says bluntly. “He’s not taking visitors.” John darts a glance at Sherlock, feeling unnerved. Somehow he had assumed that the Sniff’s planning went a bit further than “turn up on his doorstep and hope he’ll see us.”

When the guy goes to shut the door, Sherlock falls back on an old standby and sticks his foot in the gap. The man looks very slowly and meaningfully down at the foot, then back to Sherlock’s face. “Move,” he says. John twitches as he suppresses the urge to reach for his gun, tucked as usual in the back of his waistband. This could get very bad, very quickly.

“I’d rather not,” Sherlock says. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and consequently looks more pasted-on than pleasant.

John tenses again when the Nose reaches into his pocket, but he just pulls out a cell phone. He holds a button and says a few quick words of Swahili into the receiver as he swings the door back open. Behind him, a few meters up the hallway, another door opens and a second suited man, this one almost as tall as the Nose and significantly broader across the shoulders, emerges. He walks up the hall towards them, cracking his knuckles and looking between Sherlock and John with a speculative expression.

“Go away,” the Nose suggests. John sizes up the situation- two fugitives against at least two large and possibly armed bodyguards, on the front lawn of a prominent politician’s home- and doesn’t much like it. He stirs a step backward, inclined to take the advice, but Sherlock seizes his wrist in an iron grip and prevents him from retreating any further.

“My name is Sherlock Vernet,” Sherlock says, inexplicably raising his voice. “And I’m here about Aaron Wentzler.”

“Look, you little-“ the Nose begins, stepping forward into the doorway.

Suddenly there’s another man in the doorway that Knuckles just came out of. John evaluates him rapidly- medium build, late middle age, muscles slack and not especially fit, wearing a suit but of a finer cut than the bodyguards- before he looks at his face and recognizes him from the photo.

“That’s enough,” Joseph Kinuthia says, causing both his men to look over at him. He crooks a finger, and the two bodyguards step back away from the door so that Sherlock and John can come inside.

John barely has a chance to breathe a sigh of relief before they are being efficiently frisked for weapons. Knuckles finds John's gun immediately- the waistband is the first place he checks- and the Nose finds Sherlock's inside his trouser pocket. Kinuthia walks over and takes the guns; he checks the safeties and then puts Sherlock’s into his jacket.

“British Army issue,” Kinuthia says, examining John’s SIG. “Is this a joint operation, then? Or did you steal it?” He addresses his question to John, but Sherlock answers.

“This isn’t an operation at all,” he says. “I’m working independently.”

Kinuthia smiles wryly. “Oh, how I wish I could believe you, Agent Vernet. But this isn’t the first time your Division has called on me. I must say that knocking on the front door is a novel approach, however.” He drops his arm, letting the SIG hang loosely from his hand. “Bring them in. But restraints would be wise, I think.” He turns and goes back through the door behind him.

“Hands behind your back,” Knuckles says, and John hesitates, looking at Sherlock. This is definitely not going how John had envisioned at all.

“Sherlock-“ he begins.

If Sherlock is uncomfortable, he’s not showing it. “Shut up, John,” he says, and calmly lets the Nose bind his hands back to back behind him using a set of speedcuffs.

John is now absolutely sure that this was a mistake, but it was too late to run the moment he stepped into the house. Nothing to do now but keep following Sherlock’s lead and hope that he gets out of this unscathed. So he turns his back to Knuckles and allows himself to be cuffed as well.

The guards steer them through the open door into what looks like a home office: massive executive desk, a small collection of computer equipment, and bookcases built into the walls and filled with binders and thick volumes. John and Sherlock are prodded to stand in the middle of the room. Knuckles stays behind John with one hand on his upper arm, and the Nose quietly closes the door to the study before coming to stand by Sherlock in the same fashion.

Kinuthia is standing in front of the desk, on which he has set John’s gun. “You know of course, that I had one brief encounter with Wentzler as a child, thirty years ago. I barely remember what he looks like.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s entirely true,” Sherlock notes. “You met him several times, in fact.” An uneasy expression crosses Kinuthia’s face briefly and is gone.

“I have no idea where Wentzler is,” Kinuthia says.

“True,” Sherlock says. “But you have something that used to belong to him.”

Kinuthia's mouth gapes with shock. “You- none of the previous Englishmen knew of that.”

“They were stupid,” Sherlock says. “You were elected ten years ago. Since that time, you've had every Sniff on the continent in this house. The conclusion is obvious.”

“Why should I show it to you?” Kinuthia says, smoothing the lapels of his suit with shaking fingers. “You’re right, I’ve had many psychics inspect the...object. All without success.”

“They weren't me,” Sherlock says, raising his chin. His arrogance is so oddly compelling that John thinks he would believe him even if he hadn't known about Sherlock tracking him using just that cigarette packet. “You know my reputation. I assure you, it’s fully justified.”

“And what is your interest in Wentzler’s location?” Kinuthia says, lips tightening. “Is it that you want to silence him, so he can’t betray any of your country’s dirty secrets? Or perhaps you have more children for him to torture?”

Sherlock doesn’t flinch. “I want what you want, Mr. Kinuthia,” he says. “Aaron Wentzler in chains. His secrets revealed. Your family isn’t the only one that’s suffered.”

Kinuthia flushes. “What do you know about my family?” he demands.

“Enough,” Sherlock says. “I know you aren't psychic yourself, but you were involved in the experiments. Wentzler’s protocol used a non-psychic control for each subject, and he preferred to choose from the immediate family.” Despite the awkward angle of his shoulders, Sherlock looks perfectly composed; a strange contrast to the reddening face of the unbound man standing before him. “All his subjects were children, so the subject from your family was not a parent. Cousin is possible, but brother is more likely knowing Wentzler's-”

Sherlock's stream of deduction is cut off by Kinuthia punching him in the face. The force of the blow snaps Sherlock's head back. He cautiously rolls his neck before straightening it and looking Kinuthia in the eyes again. “Ah,” he says quietly. “Sister. Your younger sister.”

“How can you possibly know these things!” Kinuthia barks. “The records were-” He stops abruptly.

“Burned. Yes, I know. I told you, I read Wentzler's protocol. And I am very good at deriving the appropriate conclusions from available data, however slim it may be.” He cocks his head. “Let me see the piece of Wentzler that you’ve kept hidden all these years. I'll find him.” Kinuthia steps back, shaking his head. Unconvinced. “Furthermore, I can offer an additional incentive,” Sherlock says.

Kinuthia’s eyes are still glinting with a dangerous anger, and John opens his mouth to tell him that this is not the time to suggest an _exchange of favors_ , but Sherlock is already rushing on. “I know about your daughter's illness. I can-“

Kinuthia is on Sherlock again, his fist flailing with enough force to make up for the inefficiency of the punches. Sherlock twists sideways and back, but the Nose holds him up so that most of the blows end up landing on his face.

John yells, “Stop! Stop! That's not what he meant! I'm a _Stitch_!” John's lunge towards them is aborted by Knuckles' firm grip on his arm, but the last word at least gets Kinuthia to stop hitting Sherlock.

“Are you?” Kinuthia asks, panting a bit. His eyes are narrowed suspiciously as he turns them on John. He takes a small pocket knife out of his trousers and flicks it open. John has some idea what he’s thinking, and holds himself completely motionless as Kinuthia walks closer and brings the knife to his face.

The cut is shallow, barely a scratch, and it takes John about thirty seconds to carefully reseal the skin and replace the damaged cells. It would take less time if he could close his eyes and focus solely on the work, but he's not going to close his eyes on a man holding a knife.

Kinuthia stands back. “All right,” he says. “So you’re a Stitch.”

“I can cure your daughter,” John says firmly.

Kinuthia’s laughter is sharp and short, almost a bark. “Cure her! The best specialists in the world couldn’t cure her. What next, do you have a Mover who will promise to pick up my house and move it to the French Riviera?”

“Let me show you,” John says, looking steadily into Kinuthia's face, trying to project his sincerity as much as he can.

“Oh yes, let a psychic spy put his hands on my daughter,” Kinuthia scoffs. “I am not as stupid as you clearly think I am.”

“I'm a _doctor_ , I would never hurt a patient,” John says, appalled. “And I’m not a spy,” he adds belatedly. Kinuthia shakes his head.

“Besides, you have collateral,” Sherlock says. “Me.” He’s bleeding freely from a cut on his lip and his cheek is swelling up, but he’s still erect, cool and composed.

“God damn it, Sherlock,” John snaps. “You are not making yourself some kind of hostage.”

“Yes I am,” Sherlock says. “It's a logical solution.”

“You and your fucking logic!” John says. Kinuthia is looking back and forth between them, his lips pursed. “You’re a lunatic and I shouldn’t have agreed to come with you.”

“My logic is impeccable,” Sherlock says. “I didn’t intend for our meeting to end like this, but if a hostage is what will help Mr. Kinuthia trust you to abide by your Hippocratic Oath…”

Sherlock is wearing a solemn, open expression, but John has the sinking feeling that this is _exactly_ what the Sniff intended: to put them in Kinuthia’s hands, then emotionally unbalance him and tempt him with an offer he can’t refuse. Even this bickering is probably serving Sherlock’s purpose, convincing Kinuthia that the two of them are nothing even close to a pair of special operatives.

“You said it yourself,” Sherlock says to Kinuthia in a low, urgent voice. “Standard medicine has failed. Let John help your daughter.”

Kinuthia stands silently for a long moment, staring at the weave of the rug with his pocket knife still dangling from one limp hand. “All right,” he finally says. “All right.”

Sherlock remains in the office, sprawled in a wing chair with his hands tucked up behind him, while John, Kinuthia, and Knuckles proceed upstairs to the girl's room. She’s sleeping quietly, with the morphine pump next to her bed the only visible medical equipment. Her face is swollen and lopsided, with enormous growths distending the flesh into huge lumps at her jaw and forehead on the right side. She was probably quite pretty before the disease resumed its attack: you can see it in the left side of her face. She looks so unbearably young, with her face smooth and relaxed by sleep. John can’t imagine the horror of going through all that treatment, thinking you’ve won, and then having the whole thing start all over. He had never wanted to be an oncologist.

Kinuthia goes forward to the bed and brushes a few strands of hair off the girl's face. He tenderly kisses her in the center of her forehead, then turns back to John. “I am not a violent man,” Kinuthia says quietly. “But I promise that if you harm Gloria, I will destroy you. You and your friend.”

“I'm going to cure her,” John says again.

Kinuthia steps aside. “Uncuff him,” he says to Knuckles.

Freed, John rubs his wrists as he walks over to the bed. He can feel a bruise forming on his upper arm where Knuckles has been gripping him for so long, but he'll worry about it later. He inspects the morphine pump, which is set to infuse half a milligram per hour. “Who has the key for this?” he asks, tapping the pump.

“The night nurse,” Kinuthia says.

“You may want to get her. Or him.” John turns to look at Kinuthia, who has crossed his arms over his chest. “My experience is that this sort of work is quite painful.” Especially at the speed John uses, but he isn't going to brag about that. He has no idea how many hours this will take.

Kinuthia only hesitates for a second before he makes the call. It's another minute or so before a middle-aged black woman wearing pale blue scrubs steps into the room. She enters confidently, but hesitates and glances at Kinuthia when she notices John standing at the bedside.

“Mrs. Sirima,” Kinuthia says. “The Stitch wants to alter Gloria's dosage.”

“Respectfully, sir, her current dosage was set by Dr. Kisingu.” Kinuthia gives her a very hard look, and she clamps her mouth tightly shut, then marches to the bedside and puts the key in the infusion pump. John backs away to leave her path clear, but she glares at him with clear hostility.

“How much does Gloria weigh?” John asks her. “About 50 kilos?”

“54,” Sirima says crisply.

John does some rapid math. “Give her 8.1 milligrams,” he says. “Then up the infusion to one milligram per hour.”

“That's too much,” Sirima says. She turns to Kinuthia. “Sir, I really think we should call the doctor.”

John can see Sirima is a lost cause, so he speaks directly to Kinuthia as well. “It's a surgical dose. 150 micrograms per kilogram.” He quells a frustrated snarl at Kinuthia's dubious expression. “For God's sake, I told you I'm a doctor. This is going to hurt, and I'm not doing it unless she's anesthetized.”

“Will that dose harm her?” Kinuthia asks Sirima.

She shoots another glare at John. “No,” she says reluctantly.

“Then do it,” Kinuthia says. Sirima punches the keypad with vicious strokes, then steps around the bed to stand opposite John. He can't help admiring her stubborn protectiveness of her patient, but his small smile doesn't thaw her at all.

He steps back to the bedside, takes a deep breath, and cups his palms around Gloria's cheeks. The morphine will take a few minutes to take effect, so the first thing he does is have a mental feel around inside to see what's what. Down at the very edge of the jaw there is a long, thin space that screams out its wrongness. It's like a blank spot in John's perception of Gloria's body, but the cells on the edge of it are clearly butting up against something. That must be the metal plate the surgeons implanted when they did the first surgery, removing a portion of her jaw along with the tumor.

John turns his attention to the tumors. They aren't just pushing the skin and muscle outwards to form the visible lumps on Gloria's face, they are pushing inward on the deeper structures of her face. The lower is set atop her jawbone and is shoving down on the jaw and growing up into the sinuses. The upper is impinging dangerously into her eye, pushing on the bone and the nerves and threatening blindness if it continues to develop. John widens his scope and checks to see that the morphine has taken effect before he starts to work.

The first step is simple but painstaking: seek and destroy. He systematically kills and breaks down the damaged, cancerous cells of the tumors, slowing himself down to prevent Gloria's body from being overwhelmed with processing and disposing of the dead cells. By now it's second nature to monitor the patient's vital signs while he works, but his pacing is good and that part of the procedure goes smoothly. He is very, very thorough in checking for pockets of cancerous cells, because missing a single one could cause another recurrence.

At last, he's able to assess the lasting damage caused by the tumors and repair it. He regenerates the jaw first, building the bone back into its natural shape. Some of the orbital bones had to be removed as well, and he reconstructs them too. Muscle tissue next, then the nerves in the jaw and cheek, ensuring that Gloria will be capable of the full range of motion and sensation in her face. Finally he tackles the damaged eye. It's not something John's attempted before. Theoretically the cells here are the same as anywhere else, but John knows this will directly affect Gloria's eyesight, and he feels the need to be especially careful. The damage is primarily to the ocular nerve and the nearby blood vessels, which are simple enough to fix, but John triple-checks his work anyway. The tumor had also started to impinge on the cornea a bit, but John is less confident here; he’s not a bloody ophthalmologist, and he’ll consider it an accomplishment if he makes it mechanically possible for Gloria to see out of her right eye, whether she ends up needing glasses or not.

The last thing he does is a full-body sweep, looking careful for any other spots signaling wrongness to his ability, no matter how subtle. He finds nothing.

He steps back, stretching his cramping back and shoulders. “Finished,” he says, his dry throat making his voice croak a bit.

The nurse immediately swoops in, stethoscope in hand, to start checking her patient. Kinuthia is at the bedside almost as fast, and John stands against the wall, momentarily forgotten. He scrubs one arm across his eyes. He doesn't get wiped out as easily as he once did- probably all the practice helps- but he wouldn't mind a rest just now. And a meal- it hits him that he hasn't eaten since breakfast, and he has no idea what time it is now.

After a moment, Kinuthia glances up at John, then Knuckles, who is still standing alertly by the door in much the same pose as when John started work. “We'll be a few minutes,” he says. “Take him back to the study.”

John lets Knuckles herd him back to the office, where Sherlock is lounging in one of the chairs with his legs sprawled out in front of him. Someone has recuffed his hands in front and placed a plate of sandwiches and a carafe of ice water on the side table next to him, but he is completely ignoring them.

“Finally,” he says, sitting up as John enters. “I'm so dreadfully bored I can hardly stand it.”

John goes straight for the sandwiches and bolts one down without even stopping to inhale. He is _ravenous_ , and he only pauses after the first to drink about a glass and a half of water. “How long?” he asks Sherlock.

“Two hours, forty minutes.”

John blinks. He expected longer, somehow. It confuses him how a couple hours of using his ability can leave him so drained. But then, he does spend them standing largely motionless, with his body held artificially stiff. He wonders if it would work better if he tried it lying down next to the patient; he's never had an opportunity to let his guard down that much while working.

“Where's Kinuthia?” Sherlock asks.

“He's checking his daughter over,” John says. He takes a bite out of a second sandwich and chews more slowly, dropping into a chair on the other side of the table from Sherlock.

“Haven't we waited long enough to get what we came here for?” Sherlock mutters to himself, as if he finds this waste of time incomprehensible and appalling. John gives him a very hard look, then takes another bite.

Sherlock has had time to work himself into an impatient froth by the time John is polishing off his third sandwich and Kinuthia walks back into the room. “Her improvement is- remarkable,” he says. His face seems a little softened by relief, and his shoulders are a less tense now. “Thank you.”

“Can we get on with this?” Sherlock snaps. He shifts in his seat, crossing his legs and uncrossing them. John restrains the urge to roll his eyes.

Kinuthia's eyes narrow again and he glares at Sherlock. “As you say, Agent Vernet.” He walks behind the desk, taking a key from his pocket, then unlocks a drawer in the desk and removes a sandwich-size plastic bag containing a small item. He goes back to Sherlock and passes the bag into his gloved fingers. Sherlock holds it up to the light, smiling faintly. “A button,” he says. “Taken- no, torn- from his lab coat.”

“I panicked when my sister stopped breathing,” Kinuthia says. “I pulled at his coat as I begged him to help her.” He doesn't say any more, but John can read the end of the story in the haunted look in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. John feels another surge of anger and revulsion for Wentzler, wherever and whoever he is.

Sherlock wiggles his fingers. “I need my hands,” he says.

Kinuthia hesitates. “Uncuff Agent Vernet, and re-cuff our doctor, here,” he says, nodding at John.

John stands up quietly enough, but he winces dramatically when Knuckles pulls his arm around behind his back. “For God's sake,” he complains. “Can I at least be cuffed in front? My shoulders are killing me.”

Kinuthia just shrugs, and John hides his satisfaction as he allows himself to be recuffed. He can do a lot more with his hands in front than behind; including some things that Kinuthia and the bodyguards can't possibly anticipate. Knuckles sits him back down on the chair, but then removes his hand from John's arm.

Hands free, Sherlock strips off one of his gloves and jerks open the plastic bag, almost tearing it in his eagerness. He upends it and dumps the button into his bare palm. His eyes roll up into his head, but he isn't fainting; instead his back stiffens and he closes his hand tightly around the button. He sits absolutely motionless for several minutes, before he suddenly opens his palm and brings the button up to his nose, inhaling deeply and noisily. He sniffs several times, and then lowers his palm a fraction and opens his mouth, touches the tip of his tongue to the button. Then his hand snaps closed and he freezes again.

There's hardly a stir of movement in the room, even to breathe. John can hear the ticking of Knuckles' wristwatch a foot away as clearly as if it was a metronome. Sherlock hasn't twitched a muscle. John has seen Sniffs work before, but never this single-mindedly.

At long last, Sherlock takes a deep breath through his mouth and his body relaxes into a normal posture. He opens his eyes and picks up the plastic bag that he discarded by his foot, then neatly reinserts the button. “Brazil,” he says briskly. “Somewhere along the eastern coast, I believe. There's a very strong smell of the sea, and he can see Rio de Janeiro at night.” He seals the plastic bag.

“You're very confident,” Kinuthia says.

Sherlock shrugs. “Believe me or not, as you like,” he says. He moves to stand, but the Nose steps closer to the chair and puts a solid hand on his shoulder, forcing him back down. Anxiety coils in John's stomach at that. He moves to rise himself, but Knuckles' hand shoots out and grips his upper arm firmly once again.

Kinuthia takes the bagged button out of Sherlock's hand. “Thank you, Agent Vernet,” he says.

“Yes. That concludes our arrangement, I believe,” Sherlock says. He flicks his eyes at John before settling them back on Kinuthia with an almost bored expression.

“Not quite,” Kinuthia says. “Surely you don't expect me to simply take your word? This lead will need to be investigated before I can allow you to leave. And your partner's work will need to be fully checked by Gloria's doctor. He'll want an x-ray, CT scan-”

“Not part of the arrangement,” Sherlock says. “You're not helping correct your profession's reputation for deceit, Mr. Kinuthia.”

John's nails bite into his palms, and his anxiety starts to bloom into full-fledged terror. This is nothing but a trap, and he stupidly walked right into it. It's clear now that Kinuthia isn't going to let them just walk away; the only question is whether he'll keep them here for his future use, or ship them back to Holmes' custody. Sherlock is looking at John out of the corner of his eye. He's not holding his body tense, seems perfectly relaxed in fact, and John has no idea what he's thinking or if he'll react fast enough to help. John's just going to have to hope that Sherlock manages to follow _his_ lead this time.

“Rest assured, Agent Vernet-” Kinuthia begins, and John jerks up his cuffed hands, managing to brush his bare knuckles against the hand gripping his arm.

Before Knuckles can jerk his hand away, John has mentally seized his spinal cord and pinched it off, causing the bodyguard to abruptly lose control of his leg muscles. He slumps down and bounces his shoulder off the back of John's chair before hitting the floor with a shout. Kinuthia turns toward them, and therefore is completely unprepared for Sherlock's short, quick jab, which hits him directly in the groin. He goes down, and Sherlock surges forward in an attempt to wrench himself free of the Nose's grip on his shoulder.

John whirls out of his chair and jumps on Knuckles. The man's hands are still in his control, and he's making good use of them; John is too focused on getting his hands on Knuckles to really block, and he absorbs several punches to his torso and one to the side of his head that makes his ears ring. When he finally gets a hand on the bodyguard's skin he forces inflammation of the trachea, effectively choking him from the inside. When Knuckles passes out and goes limp, John lets him resume breathing.

It's only been a few seconds, and Kinuthia is still rolling on the floor clutching himself. The Nose is exchanging furious punches with Sherlock, who is at least holding his own. John kicks the chair out of his way in his haste to get one of his still-cuffed hands on Kinuthia. The man isn't fighting back, so for once John has a chance to operate on more than instinct and think through a way to painlessly incapacitate. He cuts Kinuthia's adrenal glands off and stifles the pain signals from his genitals, then floods the brain with inhibitory neurotransmitters. The result is, as John hoped, an immediate drop into slow-wave sleep.

Kinuthia still has Sherlock's gun in his jacket, but John hasn't the time to waste figuring out how to operate it while handcuffed. Instead, he wades into the fight between the Nose and Sherlock and clocks the former in the face with the rigid center bar of the speedcuffs, balling his hands into fists to keep his fingers from being broken. Sherlock knocks the man down; John assists by kneeling on his back and neck while Sherlock fumbles the other set of speedcuffs out of the Nose's pocket and wrestles his hands into them.

“Keys,” John barks, holding out his wrists.

“That- How did you do that?” Sherlock breathes, looking rapidly between the limp forms of Knuckles and Kinuthia, stretched out peacefully without a mark on either of them. “You took two men out in less than thirty seconds without-”

“Ex-soldier,” John says. “Keys!”

Sherlock finds the key in the Nose's pocket and gets John's cuffs open while they both crouch over the still-struggling Nose. As soon as the key is in the lock, his eyes shoot back to Knuckles. “No, not Army training. You just _touched_ him and-”

“Not the time for this!” John snaps. He retrieves his gun from the desk and sticks it back in his waistband. “We need to get out of here. Get your gun.”

Sherlock is just staring at John with a look of intense fascination on his face. John gets the gun out of Kinuthia's pocket and the button from his hand and hold both out to Sherlock. “ _What_ did you do?” Sherlock demands.

“Nothing that will last very long,” John says. “Let's _go_!”

Sherlock at last comes forward and takes the items out of John's hands. They leave the Nose struggling and shouting on the floor and slam their way out of the front door, running flat out back towards the lights of the city.

***

Even John is panting by the time they stop running. Sherlock is practically gasping as he leans against the brickwork of the alley.

“I should have asked for danger money,” John says, and viciously suppresses a mad urge to laugh.

“Technically you never asked for any money,” Sherlock says, regaining some of his breath. “You'd make a crap mercenary.”

John realizes that he's right- Sherlock said he wanted to hire John, but didn't name a figure, and John just went along for the ride. He can't hold it back any more; he starts to giggle. “Is it too late to ask how much you were planning to pay me?”

“Five hundred euros,” Sherlock says, which makes John laugh harder, because that's more money than he's seen since he left Afghanistan. “Yes, well, I'd say you've earned it. Mission accomplished and all that.”

“Mission- you're mad!” John says. “You realize he was never going to let us go?”

“Nonetheless,” Sherlock says. “We got exactly what we wanted. I've narrowed Wentzler's location even further and even put Kinuthia on the wrong track.”

“Wait, so he's not in Brazil?” John asks.

“Obviously not,” Sherlock says huffily. “All the indicators are pointing to eastern Asia. Thailand, I'd say now, but it will require further work.”

“So you were bluffing,” John says. “Your ability really isn't that good?” He feels obscurely disappointed.

“My ability is excellent,” Sherlock says. On from huffy to offended fury. “The subject last touched that button thirty years ago; have you any idea how many people have laid hands on it since then? Twenty-seven. I can tell you exactly where half of them are right now, and I can pin the other half within a hundred miles. The problem is not my _ability_.”

John raises his hands. “All right, sorry,” he says. “So do I get my money now, or what?” He might as well get something out of this clusterfuck.

“The money's at the hotel where I'm staying,” Sherlock says. Of course. “I should be safe there for one last night. I'll bring the cash by your flat before I leave in the morning. I already have the address.”

John narrows his eyes. “How the hell do you know where I live?

“I followed you the day before yesterday,” Sherlock says. “But I decided a neutral venue was more prudent for our first meeting. And I wasn't especially eager to visit your flat, giving how appalling the rest of the building is.”

“I've lived in worse places,” John says, quite truthfully.

“I'm sure,” Sherlock says drily. “Tomorrow, then.” John watches him stroll away up the street, casual as you like. After a moment, he shakes himself mentally and turns his own steps toward home.

Home is a one-room flat in an elderly four-story building. It's one of the better shitholes that John has bunked in: it has a bed that doesn't have bugs in it, and indoor plumbing, and the rats are extremely polite in the sense that they stay on the floor where they belong. If Sherlock comes through on his promise about the money, John can move somewhere better. John's adrenaline is slowly giving way to exhaustion, and he drapes himself over the bed and falls asleep thinking about five hundred euros and the luxury of being able to afford three meals a day and coffee every morning.

He wakes to a pounding on his laughably weak front door. Any harder and whoever it is will knock it off the hinges. A quick glance at the window shows him it's still dark, and he very nearly panics before he snaps fully awake and goes into crisis mode. He has the handgun in his hand and takes the safety off before he swings the door open.

John sighs and lowers his gun, then steps aside so Sherlock can swoop in past him. “Is this some new definition of morning? Because in my mind, 'tomorrow' starts when the sun comes up.”

“The police have been to the hotel,” Sherlock says. He inspects the mattress- the only piece of sittable furniture in the room- dubiously, then leans against the wall instead.

“What?” John demands.

“Fortunately the bellhop I paid to keep a lookout was reasonably trustworthy,” Sherlock says. “Equally fortunately, I wasn't sleeping. I had to leave in quite a hurry, but I don't think I was followed.”

“You don't _think_?” John clenches his hands into fists. “It's a bit important for me to know!”

Sherlock shrugs. “You'll be traced in any case. You're too distinctive, which makes discovery virtually inevitable. You know this- it's the principle that's guided your travel over the past nine months.”

He's probably right, but it doesn't make John any less angry. He's been enjoying Mombasa, and anyway he always prefers to leave on his own terms, not because the police come bursting in to arrest him. He starts gathering his things. His clothes are scattered about a bit, along with a couple books and a few other items he's acquired here. He still travels light, because he never wants to leave behind anything that can be used to track him.

Sherlock watches dispassionately. “Here,” he says as John approaches the bed to dump his belongings on top of it. He holds out a wad of money, and John all but snatches it from his hand. It's five hundred euros, half in twenties and half in tens. John crams it into one of his pockets, then drags his pack from under the bed and begins to pack it.

“Where are you going to go?” Sherlock asks.

John shrugs. He has no idea. “Tanzania next? Go all the way around the horn, maybe.”

“Predictable,” Sherlock says. John is reading disdain into the tone, but when he glances at Sherlock's face he doesn't see any scorn there. Apparently he's just stating a fact. “You're going to get caught eventually. Someone will pick up your pattern.”

John shrugs. “It's a big continent, even so. I'm doing well.”

“I'm going to Mumbai,” Sherlock says suddenly.

“Good for you,” John says, rolling his spare jeans into a neat cylinder and stuffing it into the pack. “What's in Mumbai?”

“A major port, and a major train station,” Sherlock says. “Thailand, remember? I may take to the sea again after India, however. I'd rather give Burma a miss.”

“Good plan, yeah,” John says. “Nice to know you can make them occasionally, even if you didn't bother last night.”

“I had a plan,” Sherlock says stiffly. “It worked perfectly.”

“Absolutely,” John says, rolling his eyes. “Step one, burst uninvited into the home of a prominent politician, step two, who the hell bloody knows. Step three, profit.” The joke goes entirely over Sherlock's head, and he just looks at John blankly. “Never mind. You're a right nutter.”

“Come with me,” Sherlock blurts out.

John crams his two battered paperbacks on top of his clothes and turns to look at Sherlock, who has paced to the window and is leaning against it watching John with an unreadable expression. “I'm sorry, what?”

“You weren't made for sitting in a squalid little flat, scraping out a living by mending scratches and broken bones,” Sherlock says.

John bristles. “I know it's a foreign concept to you Division sods, but I'm _helping_ people. This is who I am.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock says. “If you were a simple country doctor, you never would have gone to Afghanistan. You must be bored by all this...inanity.” Sherlock curls his lip.

“Oh yes.” John zips up the pack. “Insult me. That's sure to make me agree.”

“How am I insulting you?” Sherlock asks. “I'm trying to rescue you from a life of mediocrity. And I'm not asking you to stop helping people, I just want you to stop helping random strangers and help me instead.”

Of course Sherlock wanted him to come along- he made clear last night just how fascinated and pleased he was by John's unexpected ability to fight using his ability. He may not be working for Division right this moment, but Sherlock's interest gives him the same feel that Mycroft Holmes' scrutiny did. Like Mycroft, Sherlock is interested not by John himself, but how his powers can be of benefit. “No,” John says.

He hears the sound of cars pulling up outside, followed by the echo of car doors slamming.

Sherlock spins to look out the window behind him. “Oh,” he says. “Apparently I was followed.”

John practically shoves him out of the way to get a look at the men tromping up the front steps of the building. “Fuck me!” he says. “You led them straight here!”

“Inevitable,” Sherlock reminds him. John just snarls and snatches up his pack, slinging it onto his back. "Is there another way out of here? Fire escape?"

"Not that I know of," John says. He picks up the gun and tucks it into his waistband.

"Good God! Didn't you consider potential escape routes at _all_ when you chose this flat?" Sherlock sounds ridiculously put-out by this.

John jabs a finger in Sherlock's direction. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have to escape, you maniac! Don't make this seem like a failing on my part!"

Sherlock strides to the door and opens it; John follows just him time to see him taking the stairs two at a time- headed up, not down. John hesitates briefly, and then he hears the sound of doors being pounded on the floor below and hurries upward himself.

"Okay, we're on the roof," John says when they reach the top of the stairs. “Now what?”

Sherlock is turning slowly in a circle, scanning the skyline. "Which way is the harbor?" he asks. John glances around briefly, then points. Sherlock strides to the edge and surveys the alley below.

Sherlock is walking back from the edge. "Sherlock, what are we meant to- Jesus Christ!" He has taken a run-up and jumped over the gap to the building across the narrow alleyway. Apparently Sherlock's mum never sat him down and explained that real life is not a fucking action film.

Sherlock turns back to look at John and puts his gloved hands on his hips, raising an eyebrow. "Problem?" he asks crisply.

John grins- real life is overrated anyway. He grunts when he hits the rooftop next to Sherlock, bending his knees to better take the impact. There are five more running long jumps before they reach the end of the block and run out of rooftops.

John tries the roof access door, which is locked, and Sherlock immediately sets to pacing the edge of the roof, leaning out to see the sides of the building. “No fire escapes,” he says. John's not surprised- this part of town wasn't built with fire safety in mind. He doesn't have any proper lockpicks, but he does have a screwdriver. He takes off his pack and digs it out of the side pocket.

“I don't suppose you have any experience with buildering, or with free solo climbing?” Sherlock calls to him.

“No,” John says shortly. John spares him a glance and sees that Sherlock is peering intently over the edge of the roof. Good God, the nutter is actually considering climbing bare-handed down the side of a building. Does he have any common sense at all? “Get away from there. You're making me nervous.”

“I'm hardly going to fall,” Sherlock says. “And if you can think of any other ways to get off this building before the police get here-”

“Um, the door?” Sherlock turns to face him just as John manages to get the last hinge pin out of the door, and he only gets a glimpse of the gobsmacked look on Sherlock's face before he has to catch the door so it doesn't fall on him. Which is a shame, because John would love to memorize that look for his future enjoyment. Sherlock darts over to his side and helps him move the heavy door to lean against the wall.

They hear a shout from John's building, and turn to see some of their pursuers emerging onto the roof. “Quickly!” Sherlock says, and darts through the doorway.

Then it’s down the stairs, past several startled tenants on the first floor, and out the door into the street, dogging Sherlock's heels all the way. Sherlock grabs his wrist and turns unerringly in the direction of the harbor. “This way!”

“Wait, wait!” John says. Sherlock turns on him with a frown. “Bus station's back the other way,” he says. “I told you, I’m heading for Tanzania. Better to split up now rather than later, we have a better chance that way.”

“Split-” Comprehension flashes over Sherlock's face, and he flings John's wrist away from him. “ _Fine_ ,” he snarls. He spins on his heel and sets off running.

John has no time to waste in bemusement or irritation, as his adrenaline is surging and he can feel the tension of pursuit like a prickling on the back of his neck.

Without a backward glance, John turns away from Sherlock Vernet and dashes for the bus station and points south.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this ending does indeed mean I'll be writing another fic in this universe. I'd be pissed off if I wasn't having such a good time.


End file.
